tidings
give me mornings that start with a blank slate
when before the burning starts
i can use my privilege to not think
about the burning
or perhaps anything at all
on the other side of the window there’s not a stir
men, streets, voices asleep
this lone scrap of paper however
floats in the wind, rolls around
lands gingerly, aimless, almost out of place
in this neatly-trimmed suburbia
the doldrum of mechanical voices fills the air
newspapers opened, heads shook
mouthfuls of oppression for breakfast
another day to stay in and simmer
shape tall words out of snippets
watch power bluster, just lie after lie after lie
it’s blue not black
there was no tear gas
and all lives matter.
sometimes it feels like
words are just that: words
is there one powerful enough to
make you look at a black man and see him as
blood, sinews, heart overflowing with stories
and life and the joys of
bright-red toy trucks and chocolate ice cream on the beach,
birthdays with mom and dad,
inside jokes with a belly full of laughter,
butterflies on your first kiss,
and watching your baby sleep in your arms?
so yeah.
fuck mornings that start with a blank slate
because there’s no such thing.
